Redemption
by clemonlime
Summary: Reid is kidnapped, but he's done this before.


"You can leave anytime you want."

For some reason, I didn't believe her. My arms weren't bound to the chair or anything, and the area around us was fairly new but seemed welcoming. A loveseat, a window, a table with a plate of cookies. She sat in front of me, back straight and legs crossed, heels on her feet and odd smile on her face. I checked my wrists for binds, but there were none. Just my bare wrists resting on soft velvet.

I wasn't going to fall for this again. I'd been in this seat two times already, I'd felt the softness (although, last time, it was more cashmere than velvet, but she always liked changing things), and I'd dealt with this time after time. I'd always been her favorite hostage in these situations, but the BAU had gotten me out before and they were going to get me out again. There was no way I could possibly fall for it again.

"So." Her voice was calm but piercing, catching my attention from the cookies. "How was your day."

It wasn't a question. At least, it didn't seem like it. There wasn't question in her voice, but more concrete, pouring from her unfamiliar lips and onto her lap. I began to feel a burning inside and looked down to my elbow. I was medicated. Very medicated.

"Okay, I guess." I punctuated my sentences with I guess or if you want or maybe or sometimes because she wanted it. Because she wasn't smart when it came to my lies; I was good at making her think my dignity was still half empty. That was how she "maintained power over me," but this time... this time I knew how to fight it—the drugs, the manipulation. I could see a camera

"Cool."

I rolled my wrists in place. The thought of standing up and walking through the oak door behind her flashed through my mind, but it was gone as soon as it came.

She pulled a cigarette from her pocket, and I attempted to knock it from her hands with my stare. I wasn't against smoking, but it doesn't look like a cigarette in _her_ hands, but more like a gun, and when she puts it up to her lips—

"So," she said again, blowing gray gunsmoke into my face, "how's Morgan?"

I grimaced. She laughed.

"Ah," she said.

"I'll have you know," I straightened my back in the chair, my feet rolling to settle on their toes, "He's great. Everything is looking up without you looking over my shoulder and giving Director's Commentary. I'm doing fine."

"Oh…" She widened her eyes and, as I watched, veins shot around her scleras like lightning, and in a few moments, her eyes were a hurricane over an orange sky and I was stuck in my chair, scared to stay but scared to leave and miss such an interesting sunset. Not only was I staying because I was so medicated my legs most likely wouldn't work properly, I was staying to learn things. About her, about where we were.

"Nevermind." My voice was gravelly and quiet as my eyes slid from hers to my lap. I had to keep her thinking she was winning. "Everything sucks and people scare me."

She blinked and the sunset was gone, replaced by a dull gray sky. She believed the feigned guilt I felt for spilling my mind onto her concrete lap was building up in my chest. I reached forward and grabbed a cookie.

"That's good." Her sentences have gotten shorter and shorter over time. That was an interesting development in her M.O. When I first met her, she would say she could write novels about my eyes and poetry anthologies for my smile (of course, through her case of erotomania, she couldn't help but think that I shared her feelings toward her), but I've found that now, as I've begun keeping my eyes down, not giving her the satisfaction, her bookshelf continues to stay empty. If I get two sentences from her, I feel giddy, and three sentences makes my heart beat faster. It means I'm getting to her.

"I liked what you wrote."

I glanced up through my eyelashes and batted them once as I took a few crumbs from the sides of the treat in my hands in between my teeth. Compliments were rare. "Really?"

"Yeah. Not too bad for a little boy."

My hope fell (I showed this by making and breaking eye contact within seconds) and I quickly moved to hide the dignity that was dripping from my left sleeve (tucking my hair behind my ear, not-so subtly shifting my posture). I stood to leave, my legs wobbly, gently placing my cookie on the armrest. She said nothing, leaning further back in her chair and simply watching with crossed arms as I walked to the door. There wasn't a door lock, but I could tell she hadn't brought me into the middle of the suburbs. Most likely in the middle of the woods. She had a few houses spread across the country. I couldn't know where I was just by looking outside.

"That shirt looks good on you," she added, her mouth curled up in a knowing smile, as if she could see me stop before my hand could grasp the handle of the door.

"Thank you," I said politely. My tense shoulders dropped gently to their rightful, comfortable places. I blinked. I was back in the chair, but she stayed in her relaxed position, smoke billowing from her nostrils like ash from a brewing volcano. I looked down at my arms. More injection sites had been created. I looked up. I really couldn't leave.

I would never look at eyes like hers the same ever again. What used to be a youthful ocean now looked more like harsh, foamy waterfall that was pulling me under and making it harder and harder to breathe. The first time she'd taken me in, she was inexperienced, making mistakes and fumbling with every word she spoke in order to get to me. As time went on, she did her research. She knew my weaknesses—at this point, she'd turned to actual drugs in order to keep me put. She was developing.

"Morgan and I are engaged, you know," I said in a conscious attempt to play her at her own game, to brag about something she could never have, to get her riled up. "

"I saw the pictures."

I knew she had. She had accounts on each social media site and database, several anonymous, several following me and me only. Sometimes she would like things, sometimes she wouldn't. However, sometimes I found myself posting things, happy things, pictures of me smiling with eyes closed, captions with exclamation marks and smiley faces, with Morgan and with our team... all just to show her that I could function in my daily life without her. It made a fun game to make it seem like it was falling apart behind the scenes when it wasn't.

"Did you like them?" I asked, my eyebrows raising.

"No," she said, "I think they're terrible."

"Why?" I was surprised, an emotion I didn't feel often, especially not around her. She wasn't ever honest about her feelings, most of it was just a façade to show how superior she was. But she'd thrown that to the window, and that meant she was dangerous.

"He's too good for you. Like a pretty candle beside a useless, burnt up match."

I opened my mouth to protest, but hesitated. I'd had the same thought and thoughts of a similar nature, but I was getting better at ignoring them in real life. The dysphoria of having a living person agree with the darkest thoughts I've had overwhelmed me, but made me question whether or not I should just have accepted it then. After all, I keep the good thoughts in my backpack, crinkled and forgotten for an accidental find; just as I keep the unhappy thoughts in the drawer of my dresser that I grab clothes from every morning, and never think to move them. I cringed, but didn't show it on the inside. I looked back to my arm; I recognized the raised bumps over my skin. It was a concoction she'd made that I'd not seen before, but the way my head was beginning to spin, I could make a guess about what was rushing through my veins. I wouldn't last too much longer before going into anaphylactic shock. I looked over to the camera and noticed the red light. It had been on the whole time. They were already within a mile, I knew of it.

"Well," I said strongly, confidently, as my legs began to fill with static, "You're wrong."

"Oh?" She perked up, ready to shoot me down with her gunsmoke breath. This was all a game to her, anyway, but she was rolling with pills instead of dice and the more she threw on the table the faster I'd back down. Not this time. Using suicide as a reason for me not to leave was pointless if she was going to treat me with medication that could incapacitate me. Even if she thought I was in love with her, I knew it wouldn't do much good either way. I would call her bluff.

I know I should have said something along those lines. But it was so hard to. I could see the storm nearing in her eyes. The distant sound of careful rustling leaves outside gave me determination.

"I'm a lighter, not a match." My arms began to feel limp. "You used me to light your cigarettes, and he needs me for function. There's a difference."

"I loved you."

"No, you loved the idea of me. The idea of a pseudo-celebrity in love with someone like you, a normal person with access to drugs and firearms." I murmured, trying to keep my eyes on her as my vision went blurry. "You have a disorder. Erotomania, if you want to know, and besides. Why would I ever love you"

"Fair point," she said, accentuating the _'t'_ and punctuating her sentence with a puff of smoke.

This was her final weapon—getting the last word. I'd lost so many battles in this type of room by fighting, screaming at her that she didn't love me, that she was sick. But why would I argue a point that we both knew was correct?

The door busted open. The room was filled with men and women with guns, but I made eye contact with Morgan as soon as he entered. He noticed how I was slumped in my chair and looked to my arm. He rushed over, "Reid? Reid! Wake up, what-"

"I'm fine," I murmured, "I have trace amounts of carbenicillin in my system mixed with Dilaudid and a few other less dangerous drugs—the first aid kit in the car has a shot of epinephrine, I need that. And an ambulance."

The room's cozy interior was bleak, suddenly, as if I'd blinked and just realized it. I think it was because I was leaving, truly leaving, and she knew it. She'd lost at her own game, and I wasn't going to be the one to flip the chessboard.

Hotch grabbed her out of her chair, holding her arms behind her back. He recited the Miranda rights as another agent checked for any concealed weapons.

"Check under the chair cushion," I croaked. The agent pulled out three vials of various drugs as well as a revolver and two bullets.

"Goodbye!" Her voice was frantic in a way to attempt to hide her franticness, but I kept calm as I was carried away by Morgan. He carried me to the car and slipped into the back seat. In a way, I had the last word through my silence. In a… symbolic way.

"We've got you," Morgan whispered, unzipping the first aid kit and uncapping the Epipen. "I've got you."

I smiled and closed my eyes, feeling the sting of a needle in my leg. We finally caught her, and we'd keep her for good this time. There's never any redemption for a manipulating aggressor, especially not when she thought she could beat me.


End file.
